My Dearest Enemy

by Jennifer Moore

  Emmett thought of Emeline and the way his father treated her. An ornament was a good description.

  “Then, who?”

  “Who what?” She blinked and opened her eyes wide.

  “Who will you choose for a husband?”

  “Well, I don’t know him yet, do I? Or I would be hopelessly in love.”

  He furrowed his brow, smiling. He’d never had a conversation like this with his sister and found it bemusing and rather fascinating.

  Lydia leaned close, her hands clasped together. “The man I will love shall know me as no one else does. He’ll see what makes me different from all the other young ladies, and instead of being bothered by my differences, they will be what he loves most about me.”

  He stared at her, again surprised by the depth his sister was capable of when she took the opportunity to use her mind. “He’ll know what you need,” Emmett said slowly.

  “Yes, that’s right.” She nodded, making her curls bounce.

  His heartbeat thumped against his ribs as the realization hit him. “And make you feel important,” he said.

  “Obviously.” She looked at him with half-lidded eyes. She picked up her fan and spread it open, waving it before her and giving her most flirty smile. “And a gift of jewelry wouldn’t be unwelcome.”

  “Lydia.” He pushed down the fan. This was no time for banter. “I need your help.”

  She shrugged and opened her mouth as if she’d give a playful response but looked at him, and her face turned serious. “What is it, Emmett? You’ve gone pale. Are you ill? Or in trouble?”

  “There is a woman.” He rubbed his forehead. “She . . . I love her.”

  Lydia’s concern vanished, and her face lit up with a smile. “Oh, I am so glad.”

  “But I’ve spoiled everything.”

  She nodded. “Of course you have.”

  He felt desperate. He’d never asked his sister for advice before, but suddenly she seemed the most clear-thinking person on the topic. “I must apologize, convince her that I love her, but I don’t know how. Will you help me?”

  She took his hands and held his gaze steadily, showing a composure he’d never seen in her. “Em, calm yourself, and tell me everything.”

  Chapter 25

  Abigail took Dr. Wright’s hand and climbed down from the wagon. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Good work today, Miss Tidwell.” He handed out her medical bag then clicked the reins, and the wagon lurched forward, leaving behind a cloud of dust.

  Abigail started up the pathway to the boardinghouse, inhaling the smell of supper. Meat pies, she thought, her stomach rumbling appreciatively. Mrs. Simmons, the owner of the house, made the best meat pies she’d ever tasted. She reached for the door handle.

  A throat cleared behind her, and she turned.

  “Good evening, Jasper.” She smiled, still not used to seeing him without his bear head covering. “I didn’t expect to see you this evening. Is everything all right? Caroline? Molly?”

  “They’re well,” he said, his face softening as it did when he talked about his wife and her young daughter.

  It delighted Abigail to no end that Jasper had married the shy widow who tended the counter at the grocer’s. When Emmett had left nearly six weeks earlier, Jasper had stayed behind. He claimed to have nothing to return to in Kentucky, but she knew he’d remained to keep an eye on her. At first, seeing him was so painful, she could hardly bear it. Those first weeks, she’d immersed herself in her work, caring for patients long into the night and waking early to begin again. As long as she was busy, she could keep herself from remembering and keep her heart from hurting.

  Now, however, Jasper’s presence was a reminder of a happy time. A reminder that she’d been in love, and the pain of losing Emmett had dulled to an ache laced with remorse.

  She set the medical bag inside the door and joined him on the porch.

  Jasper, as usual, was quiet, but she sensed there was something he wanted to say.

  “What brings you into town today?” she asked, knowing he’d need a little prodding.

  He glanced up the street toward the row of shops. “Molly’s birthday,” he muttered.

  “And you wish to buy her a gift?”

  He nodded. “Thought you might help me.”

  “I’d be delighted to.” She walked beside him up the road. “Molly is four?”

  “Five.”

  “Maybe she would like a new bonnet or a hair ribbon?”

  Jasper rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought . . . I’ve heard young girls are fond of dolls.”

  Abigail couldn’t hold back her grin. She thought of the first time she’d seen Jasper. He’d terrified her. Who would have guessed beneath the buckskin and bear hide, he was so softhearted? “A doll is a perfect gift.”

  A quarter of an hour later, they emerged from the dry goods store with a small package. Jasper had purchased not only a doll but a hair ribbon for Molly in the same color as the doll’s dress. He held the sack carefully in one arm as they walked back to the boardinghouse.

  “She is going to be very happy with her gift, Jasper,” Abigail said. She remembered her own father bringing home her doll from Philadelphia. Abigail had imitated her father as she’d seen him treat patients, listening to the doll’s heartbeat and feeling its porcelain head for fever. Sometimes, she wrapped its arms or legs in cloth, pretending the doll had suffered a broken bone. A different ache stung inside her as she thought of her father.

  She swallowed, and a melancholy descended over her, but she kept her smile for her friend’s sake.

  They reached the porch of the boardinghouse, and she bid Jasper farewell, turning to go inside.

  “Abigail?”

  She turned back to Jasper.

  “The typhus outbreak is contained now.”

  “Yes, I am glad of it.” She wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

  “Perhaps now you’d want to continue on to Baltimore? Caroline and I will accompany you if you don’t wish to travel alone.”

  Abigail didn’t think she’d ever heard Jasper say so much in the entire time she’d known him. She’d never had such a loyal friend, and he was loyal to Emmett too. She knew he wanted the two of them to be happy, to be together. But it wasn’t as easy as traveling to his house in the city and knocking on the door. “I can’t. I can’t be what he wants me to be. I’m meant to help people.” She twisted her fingers together, lowering her head. “I don’t think he’d wish to see me even if I did go. When he left”—she glanced up—“he was very angry.”

  Jasper shook his head. “He was hurt, and hurt looks a lot like anger when a man’s pride is involved.”

  She wiped away a tear. “Jasper, I wish it were different. That I were different, or . . . I don’t know. But I miss him.”

  He nodded, reaching out and tentatively patting her arm, which for him was an extreme display of affection. “I know.”

  ***

  A week later, Abigail returned from the church service and climbed the steps to her room. She tossed her bonnet onto the desk and pushed open her window, a late spring breeze billowing the flowered curtains.

  She stretched out on her bed, feeling lavish sleeping in the middle of the day. But as she had no farm to manage and no patients to tend . . . she’d indulge herself.

  A knock came at the door. “Miss Tidwell,” Mrs. Simmons called. “A gentleman is here to see you. He’s in the parlor.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Simmons. I’ll be just a moment.”

  Jasper must have come to tell her about Molly’s birthday. Her rest could wait. She hurried down the stairs and into the parlor. “Jasper, how did Molly—”

  Emmett rose from the settee.

  Abigail gasped. The shock of seeing him disoriented her, sending a flush of adrenaline tingling her nerves.

  He crossed his arm in front of his waist and bowed. “Hello, Abigail.”

  “Emmett, what are you doing here?” She blinked at her own rudeness, feeling con
fused. “I’m sorry, I’m being a terrible hostess, you just surprised . . .” She curtsied. “How nice to see you. Please, won’t you sit down?”

  He grinned and waited for her to sit before joining her on the settee.

  The sight of him was so familiar, his smell, his uneven grin, she could scarcely put two thoughts together.

  “To answer your question, I’m traveling north to a new command in Fort George. The battalion is quartered in Williamsport for a week at least, to replenish supplies and wait for another regiment to join us from Ohio.”

  “Oh,” was all she could think to say.

  He smiled, apparently enjoying her awkward reaction. “I’ve come today in hopes that you might help me.”

  She smoothed down her skirts, composing herself. “Yes, of course.”

  He nodded. “I’ve received a promotion, and now—”

  “Oh, congratulations! Emmett, that’s wonderful.” She looked at the insignias on his shoulder. “You are Major Prescott now.”

  “Yes, thank you. And you see, my new rank presents me with a problem. I’m responsible for staffing my battalion, and we still lack a doctor.” He held an envelope toward her.

  Abigail studied him for a moment, not sure what exactly he was getting at. His face was hard to read. He acted confident, but the skin beneath his eyes was tight. Was he nervous?

  He waved the envelope. “Go on, open it.”

  The letter was addressed to her. She broke the wax seal and slipped out the paper. Unfolding it, she saw the emblem of the United States Army at the top of the stationery and read a formal request to hire her services as an army surgeon.

  She stared at the letter, tracing the outline of her name: Abigail Tidwell (doctor). Her hands shook, and a fluttering started in her belly. “Emmett, do you really mean . . .”

  He swung around to kneel on the rug before her. “I was wrong, Abigail. Please forgive me for taking so long to realize that loving a person means loving who they are, all of them.” He took her hand. “All of you. Abigail, the thing you want most is to be needed. To be able to help others. And I tried to change you. I was only concerned with what I want most—to keep you from harm.” His brow wrinkled. “I hope in time I can figure out how to do both, but for now . . .” He motioned toward the letter.

  She set it aside and placed her hands on his shoulders. She held his gaze, wanting him to see how grateful she was. “Thank you, Emmett. You’ve made me so happy.”

  He glanced at the letter. “We may need to change the wording.”

  Abigail tilted her head. “Why? I don’t . . .”

  He shrugged, one side of his mouth lifting. “I hoped to be able to hire a Mrs. Abigail Prescott.” He pulled a small wrapped box from his pocket and set it in her hand. “If she will consent.”

  Tears clogged her throat. “Emmett . . .”

  “Go on, open it,” he said again. He moved back to sit beside her.

  Abigail tore off the paper and opened the wooden box. “Oh,” she breathed. “I have never actually seen . . . It’s more beautiful than I dreamed.” She held up a chain with a black opal affixed to it, watching the light diffract, making bursts of color. Even with her understanding of the mineral properties, she could find no words to describe the splendor of the gem.

  She fastened the clasp around her neck, holding up the pendant, unable to stop admiring the magnificent gift. “I don’t know what to say, I—”

  “Say you’ll marry me.” Emmett took her face in his hands. “Say I won’t ever have to leave you again.” His eyes pleaded.

  “I will,” Abigail whispered. The words had hardly left her mouth before they were lost in his kiss. His lips were hot on hers, his fingers tangling into her hair. Abigail grasped on to his lapels, pulling him closer, feeling as if he could never be close enough. He’d said what she wanted was to be needed, to help others, but in reality, the only thing that made her whole was this man. Emmett had given friendship when she was alone, courage when she was afraid, and a purpose when she was lost. He wanted her to succeed and believed her aspirations to be as valuable as his own.

  “I missed you,” he whispered against her lips, his breath sending tingles over her skin.

  She nestled beneath his arm as she had so often as they’d sat beside a campfire in a snow-covered forest. “Don’t leave me again,” she said.

  He pulled her tighter against him. “I have one more thing for you.”

  “Emmett, you don’t need . . .”

  He reached down beside the settee and lifted a wooden bucket, setting it into her lap. Inside was a small, handheld pickaxe.

  She looked at the bucket and then at him, bewilderment making her scowl. “What is this?” Was he ruining their romantic moment with a joke?

  “I told you, the army is stationed here for a week, so I hoped we might honeymoon in Fredericksburg.”

  Abigail still didn’t understand what a bucket and a pickaxe had to do with getting married or a honeymoon, or anything for that matter. After his other two gifts, this was somewhat disappointing.

  He placed the bucket onto the floor then set the tool in her hand, closing her fingers around it. “Three miles north of Fredericksburg, there is a fossil bed where we can hunt for trilobites.” He kissed her again, and the pickaxe transformed into the most romantic gift she could conceive.

  “You know, once we’re married, you’ll be an American,” Emmett said. “Or, as you so eloquently put it the first day we met, a cursed American.”

  “I suppose there are worse things than marrying one’s enemy,” Abigail said, and she pulled him close for another kiss.

  About the Author

  Jennifer Moore is a passionate reader and writer of all things romance due to the need to balance the rest of her world, which includes a perpetually traveling husband and four active sons who create heaps of laundry that are anything but romantic. Jennifer has a BA in linguistics from the University of Utah and is a Guitar Hero champion. She lives in northern Utah with her family. You can learn more about her at authorjmoore.com.

  Other Books By Jennifer Moore

  Becoming Lady Lockwood

  Lady Emma's Campaign

  Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince

  Simply Anna

  Lady Helen Finds Her Song

  A Place for Miss Snow

  Miss Whitaker Opens Her Heart

  Miss Leslie's Secret